


Closing the Circle

by Jael_Lyn



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:17:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jael_Lyn/pseuds/Jael_Lyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Endings, even those long delayed, can actually be a glorious beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closing the Circle

Disclaimer: The characters depicted within this story do not belong to us, but are the property of Pet Fly, UPN, Paramount and The SciFi Channel. No money has been made from the writing of this story.

Closing the Circle   
By Jael Lyn 2010

The proud parents seated next to me have made an effort at small talk. I smile and nod, even though I don't quite understand their joy. Honestly, do they really think an art history degree is going to get their little girl out of the house? They ask politely who I'm there to see, and I'm a bit evasive. Deliberately so. "I'm here for my friend," doesn't really cover it, but I can't bring myself to unload on these kind, well-meaning strangers. 

So, it's all a bit awkward, being here all alone. I thought he'd ask some of the guys, or at least call Naomi. Nada. Blair Jacob Sandburg will receive his PhD with an audience of one. 

Ironically, I skipped the graduation ceremony when I got my own college degree. I had some vague notions left over from high school about Pomp and Circumstance, rowdy undergrads, uncomfortable folding chairs, boring speakers, and decided to skip the whole deal. Actually, any excuse to escape an afternoon with the family was good enough for me. So other than the mythology, I didn't know what to expect. Sandburg is usually ready to cut loose with info on almost any obscure subject, but on this topic, he's been noticeably silent. 

Looking back, I should have seen it from the beginning, right from the moment the deal with Rainier was struck. He didn't want to discuss it, much less celebrate or let anyone in on it. The secrecy seemed odd at the time. I just chalked it up to some Sandburgian need to avoid bad karma or something. I knew he was happy about it, even though he didn't verbalize it. These senses tell me a thing or three. His heart rate jumped to double time when Chancellor Edwards signed her name to the settlement Rainier agreed to. He deserved more, but I think he got what he really wanted.

Judging by the final agreement, my dad's lawyers turned out to be good for something after all. Sandburg got to finish his diss on a different topic, with the committee of his choosing, and a formal, binding statement from Rainier stating no fraud had ever been perpetrated. The punitive damages for wrongful dismissal retired all his loans and other financial obligations with a little to spare. I was waiting for him to dance on the nasty bitch's desk. Hell, I would have joined him, not that my dancing is all that impressive. Instead, I didn't even see a little smile of satisfaction. He marched out of her office at Rainier, begged off on the celebratory lunch I wanted to buy him, and we drove straight back to the loft. 

From that moment, for the last six months, Sandburg has been officially busy. No quick beer with other detectives after work. No afternoons at Jags games with Simon. We euphemistically called his absorption "dates" when anyone asked. Sandburg was dating. She was shy, or mysterious, or maybe there were multiple she's, and after awhile everyone quit asking. Too bad the demanding woman in his life was a word processor and boxes of research notes. 

The loft looked like the inside of a paper shredder. I bought a lot of WonderBurgers and tried to keep my mouth shut. But I digress...

Simply put, he was a man possessed. Total focus from the original multi-tasking guy is impressive. Outside of work, I only caught glimpses of the back of his head bowed over the laptop when I invaded his room, carrying tea or some meager meal. On more than a few nights, I'd hit save, shut the thing down and at least put his feet up on the bed after he'd fallen asleep over the keyboard. The hours would have killed me. He finished his rookie probationary year essentially working two jobs. It made me tired just to watch.

Predictably, he wrote the damn thing in record time. Went to his committee and got all the preliminary smiley face stickers or whatever it is picky academics do to their doctoral candidates. When he went to give his defense, I listened from the hallway outside the examination room. He was crisp, scholarly, precise; a far cry from the animated TA who wowed them in Anthro 101. They asked a few questions, but it all seemed halfhearted to me. They were just following the form. The truth was, he blew those old crusty professors away, and they couldn't muster a blessed thing to hassle him with.

Then it was over. He told no one. No cake with a few friends, no framed diploma on the wall. In a way, I felt worse about things than I did the original debacle, and that's saying something, because I felt like shit before. To me it seemed sneaky or tawdry, like he'd mailed in box tops and got a PhD along with the secret decoder ring. I mentioned it a couple of times, but he blew it off. 

Then the end of May rolls around, he just asked me to show up for the graduation. No preamble, no explanation, and that was that. 

He left this morning before I got up. My ticket to get into this shindig was on the table with a "see you there" note. So, here we both are. The undergraduates file in, and ocean of black engulfs the place. Green and white tassels flicker on every head, stupid messages on their mortarboards and big grins. For a moment, I almost lose it in the bobbing black and green sea. I focus, imagining Sandburg's anthropology voice in my head, going on about the importance of rites of passage and coming of age rituals in Bongo Bongo. I haven't heard that voice for awhile. It disappeared behind, "You have the right to remain silent," and the click of the keyboard as that dissertation emerged, syllable by syllable.

I miss that voice.

The undergrads, still shuffling for their seats, block my view as the candidates for advanced degrees file in. Even with my skills, I can't find him. I know he's there, but I can't actually see him. For the record, the folding chairs ARE hard. The speakers drone on. Edwards is up on the platform, and in my heart of hearts, I'm tempted to take a shot at her from here. I deny myself that reckless satisfaction, even in fantasy. As much as I hate that woman, I really can't. I'd have to turn the piece on myself first. She caused him pain and humiliation, but I was the one who really wounded his soul.

Time to confer the PhD's. The candidates rise, filing gracefully to one side of the auditorium to wait their turn. Rainier green lines the hoods, draped over each arm. All the colors of the academic disciplines flow in a sinuous river, from the back of the hall to the platform.

There he is. Now I can see him, and I focus in on every detail. I had a peek when Sandburg brought his regalia home. He did take the time to explain the getup, and tolerated me when I ribbed him about the floppy velvet hat – or whatever it's called. I'm sure he thought I was ignoring the recitation on the symbolism of the robes and such. In truth, there's not much about Sandburg I don't pay attention to. 

I couldn't care less about the others climbing the academic pinnacle of their lives. He's back in the line, and my eyes are only on him, with ample time to study. The velvet edging and the bars on the sleeves stand out in contrast, or at least in my vision they do. Sandburg's bars are white, for humanities, although his diss was more criminal justice than anthropology. There's blue trim on the hood, because he's a Ph.D., and the fat tassel is gold. There's an extra cord looped around his shoulders for his grades. He was going to skip the cord, but I pinned it into place when he was gone and apparently he didn't choose to remove it.

He seems serious and calm, his gaze fastened on the guy ahead of him. His hair is clubbed back in some sort of complicated knot. The gold earring, absent since day one at the academy, winks at me. Somehow, that flash of the old Sandburg makes me feel a little less guilty about all he's been through to get here. 

Finally, his moment arrives. His advisor actually hoods him, but Edwards has to shake his hand as a final act. She can't quite stifle an evil glare Sandburg's direction. Maybe other people can't read it, but I can. I swear, if she so much as smirks, I'm going to reconsider my position on taking a shot. I try to honor Sandburg's declared preference for non-violence, but I think he'd forgive me. Eventually. 

She grimly goes through her part while the mechanics of conferring the degree and the draping of Sandburg's hood takes place. There's a little buzz from the crowd. Perhaps some of them recognize him, know his history, or at least the public one. Sandburg takes no notice. He steps forward and shakes her hand. God, I'm surprised she doesn't whip out the disinfecting wipes or slap him when she's though. 

I zero in on his face. His expression is serene, a tiny half smile on his face, as he crosses the stage. He makes the turn at the top of the stairs, facing out toward the crowd for the first time. He pauses, and I know he's looking for me. Our eyes meet, and his lips are moving. I can lip read my name, and catch a few fragments of what he's saying. By the time his back is turned to me, moving toward his seat, I'm starting to panic.

…it's done – move on – full circle…

Oh, God. Is he leaving? Giving up the detective gig for academia after all? Did I hear-read it right? I've got to think, and my brain is frozen. I want to run up there, do something, say something that makes him want to stay. Then the line swallows him, and although he's moving back to his seat, I lose his passage amongst the undergrads.

The wait until the end of the ceremony is almost more than I can take, but the recessional finally begins. I'm sitting on the aisle, and I manage to stay in my seat long enough to let Edwards and the other mucky-mucks pass by. At the last moment I'm tempted, but I refrain from tripping her as she goes by. Take the high road and all.

Shit, it would have been nice. Accidents happen all the time.

The recessional breaks down into chaos long before completion. I guess college isn't big on orderliness these days. I'm sucked into a crowd of noisy business grads when Sandburg grabs me by the elbow and hauls me in the opposite direction. He keeps me in tow. Like salmon, we swim upstream through the crowd of parents and onlookers. Sandburg has a bead on an exit no one seems to know about and suddenly we're outside and alone, sheltered from the crystalline blue sky by some huge maple tree.

"Congratulations," I blurt out, as if he was a complete stranger. I'm really petrified that this is the preamble to the some awful declaration. "Sorry, Jim, it's been great, but…" Then I see the light in his eyes. 

He tosses the weird PhD beanie-thing into the air and leaps at me. I catch him in midair – half high five and half hug. I set him down and he spins, arms out, the robes flying around him like some medieval wizard enchanting the universe. The hat – or whatever the damn thing is called - finally obeys gravity and plops at my feet. When I hand it to him, he has this radiant, incandescent smile, and there are tears in his eyes. 

I realize this is what joy looks like. I can't speak.

He grabs me fiercely, by the shoulders. "The circle's closed, Jim. No regrets, no 'might have beens', no guilt. You and me, man, and we can move on to the rest of the story. What a ride it's gonna be."

And now there are tears in my eyes, and I do understand. What a ride it's gonna be.

The end


End file.
